


Rise and Fall

by Twice_before_Friday



Series: Bad Things Happen (again and again and again) [6]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Gen, Mouth-to-Mouth, Poisoning, Protective Gil Arroyo, Protective Malcolm Bright, Trapped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26665288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twice_before_Friday/pseuds/Twice_before_Friday
Summary: For the bad things happen square: Poisoned"Since you've already blown our operations here, you're going to help us complete one last transaction. Our buyer requires proof that the virus and the antidote work. You're going to provide that proof. Open the case, Detective."
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Series: Bad Things Happen (again and again and again) [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1741687
Comments: 28
Kudos: 82





	Rise and Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to KateSamantha for helping me find a way to end this.

Malcolm's head is pounding when he wakes up. Not surprising, he thinks, considering he was cold-cocked with a Glock 17. He brings a hand to his temple, carefully feeling for damage before he even opens his eyes. No blood, thankfully, but he can already feel a lump and knows he'll be sporting one hell of a bruise for the next week or so.

Assuming he lives that long.

He opens his eyes slowly, squinting at the light. Dim as it is, it still stabs at his brain and he spares a thought for what his doctor will say about yet another concussion. 

That line of thinking is abandoned as he catches sight of a body on the other side of the room, sprawled on the floor but facing away from him. It doesn't matter, though, he'd recognize that sweater anywhere.

Gil.

He slowly pushes to his hands and knees, grunting at the pulsating beat in his head as he crawls over to his mentor.

"Gil," Malcolm whispers, hesitant to make any noise that may alert his captors that he's awake. He wraps his hand around Gil's bicep and gives him a small shake, praying the man rouses easily, offering a heartfelt thanks to whatever deity may be listening when he does. 

Gil rolls onto his back with a groan, tugging his arm away and bringing a hand up to the side of his head as he does. Malcolm doesn’t doubt that Gil is sporting a matching goose-egg beneath his hair.

"Gil, are you okay?" Malcolm continues to keep his voice low as his eyes finally dart around the room.

They're in some sort of storage room, by the looks of it. There's metal racking lining all four walls with banker's boxes tidily stacked on each shelf, small labels in neat handwriting adorning the front of each box. _Q4 financial Statements, Aged A/R, Income Statements_. 

Makes sense, Malcolm thinks as he waits for Gil to open his eyes. The dummy corporation they've been investigating for money laundering and murder (which also turned out to be involved in black market arms dealing and the sale of biochemical weapons — a discovery they only made moments before being knocked out) would have to keep detailed records in order to maintain their front.

"Bright?" Gil asks, following Malcolm's lead by keeping his voice hushed, "Are you okay? What happened?"

"Uh, well, I think the owners of Parable Enterprises Limited figured out the NYPD is on to them," Malcolm answers, providing a steadying hand on Gil's back as he sits up. "I think we're in a storage room, probably in the parkade level of the office building we were searching. I doubt they were willing to take us far."

Gil and Malcolm both look around the room, taking in the concrete walls behind the metal shelving, the handful of light bulbs illuminating the small space, and the very solid looking metal door on the other side of the room.

They both push to their feet, Gil automatically reaching for his gun as they move. Predictably, he's been divested of his sidearm. Both of their cell phones are gone, as well. 

As they walk towards the door, Malcolm becomes aware of an ache in his upper arm, but he's too focused on their possible escape to put much thought into it. Gil drops his hand to the handle of the door and shoots Malcolm a questioning look, making sure he's ready to fight if necessary once the door is open. Malcolm offers a quick nod and plants his feet, ready to go out swinging, and Gil pushes down on the door handle.

It's locked.

"Seems like a bit of a fire hazard," Malcolm mutters under his breath, looking around for an alternate exit while Gil rattles the handle and tries throwing his weight against the door. 

There's no other exit; no secondary doors or windows that they can attempt to crawl through. Malcolm does, however, notice a security camera bubble on the ceiling, right in the corner of the room. If Gil's banging on the door hasn't alerted their captors to the fact that they're awake, they'll know as soon as they check the security feed.

"I don't think we're getting out of here right away," Gil says after a moment, turning to face Malcolm and following his gaze to the camera in the corner. "But JT and Powell must have noticed we're missing by now. They'll start a search of the building right away."

"You're right, Detective," a voice floats to them from the far side of the room, startling Malcolm so badly that he nearly tips over as he spins towards the sound. It takes no time at all to discover a Bluetooth speaker on the shelf against the wall as the voice continues to pulse through. "Which means we really need to get a move on."

Gil and Malcolm share a concerned look, the words sounding far more ominous than either of them would like.

"Your presence here suggests we need to bump up our timelines," the voice says, sounding none too happy about the change in plans. "But we're going to make the best of it. There's a small black case on the shelf next to the door. In it, is one dosage of antidote for the virus you've both been infected with."

Malcolm's blood runs cold at the pronouncement, a chill that shakes him from head to toe. Gil, meanwhile, freezes mid-reach to the small black case, his wide-eyed gaze flying to Malcolm with panic shining bright in his eyes. They don't have time to speak, though, because the voice just pushes on, providing them with directions.

"Since you've already blown our operations here, you're going to help us complete one last transaction. Our buyer requires proof that the virus and the antidote work. You're going to provide that proof. Open the case, Detective."

Gil glares up at the camera in the corner but then very carefully opens the black case, finding a single syringe nestled in a bed of padded foam. There's an empty spot of the same size that suggests another needle has already been removed.

"One of you will live, the other will die within the hour. We don't particularly care which of you dies, but you'll need to make the decision soon."

"Jesus Christ," Gil whispers, scrubbing a hand over his face. "How do we know you're even telling the truth and that we've been injected with something?" He faces the camera as he speaks, and Malcolm can tell he's struggling not to yell, fighting to keep his cool.

Gil is worried that the voice is telling the truth.

Malcolm rubs a hand over his arm where the slight ache is morphing into a subtle burning sensation that he can't ignore any longer. His stomach turns to lead as he starts to suspect the voice from the speaker isn't lying at all.

"You'll know soon enough. I imagine you're already starting to feel the symptoms. Feeling warm, thirsty, maybe a little lightheaded already? Are you maybe having trouble catching your breath? I can assure you, it's going to get much worse."

Gil looks to Malcolm, clearly hoping he has an idea to get them out of there or can profile that the claim is nothing more than an idle threat. Unfortunately, a disembodied voice is considerably more difficult to profile than an actual person, and he's beginning to feel disconcertedly lightheaded.

He's well aware that it could very well be the power of suggestion, but the fact that they'd been informed of the FBI's interest in their case while they were searching the premises leads Malcolm to believe that this is no empty threat.

"I'll give you a moment to decide who lives and who dies. Though I would suggest you make the decision soon. If you wait long enough, you may be too incapacitated to administer the antidote. If you both die, I'll have to find new test subjects to use as an example." 

The room goes suddenly silent and Malcolm has a sneaking suspicion that their abductors are conversing with the potential buyers in regards to the little experiment that's being conducted for their benefit.

"Kid," Gil says, zipping the pouch back up and carefully placing it back on the shelf, "what are the chances he's telling the truth?"

"Honestly?" Malcolm says, rubbing his hand up and down his arm in an attempt to soothe the burning sensation that's spreading just beneath his skin. "We have no reason to believe him. We also have no reason to doubt him."

Gil reaches out and halts Malcolm's hand, his eyebrows furrowing as he looks at Malcolm's arm and then down at his own.

"Take your jacket off," Gil says, releasing Malcolm's hand and then pulling his own heavy sweater up over his head, exposing the white t-shirt he's wearing beneath.

Malcolm doesn't question him, just shucks his jacket and tosses it on a nearby banker's box. He can't help the relieved sigh that falls from his lips as he removes the layer that seemed to be trapping in all of his heat. He'd swear he can feel his body temperature rising degree by degree.

Gil looks down at the side of his own arm, and sure enough, there's a puncture mark on his bicep, looking slightly inflamed and already warm to the touch.

Malcolm hurries to unbutton his dress shirt and slip it off his left arm. It's...not pretty. His injection site is swollen and an angry red that seems to be spreading out in creeping tendrils under his skin.

"Shit," Gil says, summing up exactly what Malcolm was thinking.

Their eyes both travel over to the black case, sitting innocuously next to a box of Liability and Equity Reports.

"Okay. Let's not panic. We'll work on getting out of here before we make any decisions," Malcolm suggests, knowing damn well what Gil is going to suggest and aiming to head him off. "Like you said, Dani and JT are definitely searching for us already. Let's give them some time."

Gil scowls at Malcolm's arm but offers a hesitant nod and Malcolm hurries to get his shirt back on and buttoned up so that Gil won't have the reminder of what's on the line while they wait. The burn is spreading through his body faster by the minute, though, and he suspects they're not going to have much time.

They make their way back to the door, taking turns kicking the space next to the handle in hopes that they can free themselves, or at the very least, that someone will hear the commotion and come investigate. They're at it for maybe five minutes before Malcolm notices a tightness in his chest that makes it difficult to suck in a deep breath, like his lungs are being compressed by a tight band and can no longer fully inflate.

He looks to Gil, surreptitiously checking if he's showing the same signs of progression of the virus they've been injected with. Gil is sweating. A lot. But he doesn't seem to have the respiratory issues that are plaguing Malcolm.

Yet.

And as Malcolm listens to the rasping wheeze that accompanies each breath, he realizes he's not willing to let this go any further. Not willing to risk Gil's life on the off-chance that someone will be walking by to hear their attempts to get free.

Unfortunately, Gil becomes aware of Malcolm's laboured breathing at the same time and seems to reach a similar conclusion. He leans heavily against the door frame, sweat soaking through his t-shirt as he looks to Malcolm, resignation settling hard on his features. "Bright, you need to inject the antidote. Now," Gil says firmly, his tone leaving no doubt that he expects Malcolm to follow the order.

"No," Malcolm returns, forgetting for a moment just how difficult it's becoming to suck air into his lungs, appalled at the idea of leaving Gil to die a painful death in this godforsaken storage room. "I'm not going to let you sacrifice yourself for me."

"For Christ's sake, kid," Gil huffs, running his hand roughly over his goatee, "can you just, for once, do what you're told?"

It's a little unfair, but Malcolm supposes he can forgive him the outburst. It's worry, not anger, that's wielding Gil's tongue, and besides, Malcolm is beginning to formulate a plan that's going to require an apology on his part, too.

"Gil, we need to be realistic here," Malcolm wheezes, deciding to rely on his words while he still has the ability to use them. If he can talk Gil around, make him see the logic behind Gil taking the antidote rather than forcing Malcolm, things will go much smoother. Plan B will be...less well received. "You're an essential member of the NYPD. The city needs you. JT and Dani need you."

"And what about you? Hmm?" Gil damn near growls at the insinuation that Malcolm's life is less valuable than his. "You think Jess and Ainsley don't need you? You think the team doesn't need you? You think _I_ don't need you?"

Malcolm sighs quietly, knowing that Gil's emotions are taking over, heart leading head. "They'll all be fine Gil," Malcolm states matter-of-factly. Sure, Jessica and Ainsley would grieve his loss, but they're the strongest women he's ever met, they'll move on like they always do. "And they'll have you to help them through."

"Kid, this isn't a discussion," Gil says quietly, bringing a hand up to the back of Malcolm's neck, and Malcolm isn't quite sure if he intends to give or take comfort with the familiar gesture. Maybe it's both. "I should have died twenty years ago when I walked into the home of The Surgeon. You saved me. Every day since then has been borrowed time. If now's the time for me to repay that debt, then so be it."

Malcolm wants to argue that Gil's logic is flawed and emotionally biased, but it's getting difficult to pull in enough air to speak. He's also starting to wonder if his blood may actually be boiling in his veins. His shirt clings to him uncomfortably as sweat soaks through the light material, and he spares a thought for just how dehydrated he must already be. Malcolm knows he needs to get Gil to agree to take the antidote, sooner, rather than later.

He's running out of time.

"Gil, you need to use the antidote," Malcolm practically begs. As far as he's concerned, it's simple logic. 

Malcolm is expendable.

Gil is not.

He won't allow Gil to die when there's a clear-cut way to save him. It's as simple as that.

"Bright, you're taking the antidote. Now." Gil says, and Malcolm recognizes the adamant look on Gil's face that clearly states he'll be impossible to sway. 

The unmovable object to his unstoppable force.

Malcolm folds himself in half, planting his hands on his knees and doing his best to suck in even the most meager amounts of air, sweat dripping from his face to land in splattered droplets on the floor. "Gil, I'm sorry," Malcolm whispers so quietly that Gil can't quite make out the words. And then, before Gil has even finished asking Malcolm to repeat himself, he jerks himself upright, using the momentum to bring additional force to the uppercut he lands on Gil's jaw.

Gil's body flies back against the wall and Malcolm rushes forwards to help lower him to the ground as he sinks down, unconscious.

As soon as Gil hits the floor, Malcolm runs to the pouch on the shelf, pulling out the syringe and dropping the case to the floor.

"How do I use this?" He yells in the general direction of the camera. His vision is going spotty and he knows he needs to move quickly, before he can't inject Gil at all. He just hopes that their captor is still watching.

"I'll be honest, I didn't see that coming," the speaker clicks on, an amused voice cutting through the fog in Malcolm's head. "Pretend it's an epipen. Jab it in your outer thigh."

Malcolm drops next to Gil, immediately jamming the syringe into Gil's thigh and depressing the plunger.

"Oh, I _definitely_ didn't see that coming," the voice says.

"How long...will it take...to kick in?" Malcolm says between gasping breaths as he collapses against the door next to Gil. He doesn't know what the hell he's been interjected with, but it's fast acting and it's terrifying. His heart is pumping fast — too fast — and he knows he's not going to have much longer.

"It will start working almost immediately," the voice assures him. "Though I must say, the toxin seems to be moving exceptionally quickly through you. I've never seen it progress quite so rapidly. It's fascinating, really."

"Glad…I could...entertain you," Malcolm drops his head back against the door behind him, letting his eyes slip closed. He's getting dizzy and knows the oxygen depletion is taking its toll. 

"It's unfortunate that your team of detectives is searching the building for you both. I'd like to collect your body. You'd make an excellent specimen to examine why the rate of propagation is unexpectedly high in your system."

Malcolm shivers at the idea of this man taking his body for experimentation. He's grateful that JT and Dani will keep that from happening. At least Jessica will be able to have a proper funeral for him now.

It's not long before Gil starts to rouse, a small groan alerting Malcolm to the fact that he's regaining consciousness. Malcolm forces his eyes open and watches as Gil slowly wakes up once again. It takes a moment, but then Gil's eyes suddenly shoot open, landing immediately on Malcolm.

"Bright," Gil groans, "what did you do?"

Malcolm can't answer. Doesn't have the air for it. And Gil immediately understands _exactly_ what he's done.

"No," Gil whispers, reaching over to cup Malcolm's face, terror etched in every line on his face, "no, no, no."

Malcolm wants nothing more than to assure Gil that it's okay, that he doesn't regret his choice, that, if given the chance to do it all again, he'd do the same thing. But he can hardly manage to keep his eyes open and his breathing has become little more than shallow gasps that barely reach his lungs.

And then Gil's hands are moving, tugging him sideways to lay on the concentrate floor, just as his lungs stop working altogether. Gil only spares a moment to check for a pulse and breath sounds and then his mouth covers Malcolm's and he forces a massive breath directly into Malcolm's lungs.

It hurts.

Malcolm feels himself fading away, even as Gil's breath keeps him alive just a little longer. Breath after breath is pushed past his lips and deep into his chest, but Malcolm knows that it's too late. His body is on fire, his chest is collapsing in on itself, and he's losing the ability to hear Gil's pleas for him to hold on, to keep fighting. The last thing he hears is a banging noise on the other side of the door before his world fades to black. 

\---

It takes a moment for Gil to wake up, and the first thing he notices is the dull ache that's radiating through his jaw. He was a beat cop for enough years to know exactly what a fist to the face feels like and has no doubt that the throbbing in his molars and the twinge in his lower jaw is the result of one hell of a hit.

And then he remembers where he is.

Bright.

His eyelids jerk open and his gaze immediately finds Malcolm beside him, slumped against the door, his chest heaving but, by the sounds of it, next to no oxygen is getting through.

"Bright," Gil groans, stretching out his jaw, "what did you do?"

But even ask he's asking the question, Gil feels the tingle in his thigh and catches sight of the spent syringe abandoned on the floor between them, and he _knows_. 

Because the kid will always, _always_ , sacrifice himself for the people he loves. Hell, he'll sacrifice himself for a complete stranger if it comes down to his life for someone else's, and it doesn't matter how hard Gil tries to convince him that he doesn't need to atone for his father's sins, Malcolm Bright will always choose others over himself to make up for not stopping Martin sooner.

But Gil isn't ready to lose him. Not so soon. Not like this.

He leans in, cupping Malcolm's face between his hands, so much heat radiating from his skin that Gil nearly pulls them back. "No, no, no, no."

Bright is obviously having trouble keeping his eyes open, but even still he looks Gil square in the eye, the determination in his crystalline irises telling Gil everything that Malcolm is trying to say.

Telling him goodbye.

Gil refuses to let this be the end.

Malcolm's lips are already a concerning shade of blue and Gil knows he'll need mouth to mouth soon. He drops his hands to Malcolm's shoulders and tugs him to lay flat on the ground, his own breath catching in his throat as Malcolm's head flops limply when he maneuvers him to the floor. Before he's even fully laid him out, the high-pitched rasping sound of Malcolm's breathing cuts off entirely, plunging the room into a stony silence that makes the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

"Goddamn it, Bright," Gil mutters, terror and anger taking hold of his heart as he slides two fingers to the pulse point on Malcolm's throat, feeling the rapid heartbeat fluttering like a hummingbird beneath his fingertips. "Don't you die on me. You hear me? You don't get to go out like this."

He tilts Malcolm's head back, lengthening his airway, before prying the kid's jaw open and plugging his nose. Training kicks in as he leans in and closes his mouth over Malcolm's, blowing hard to force the air from his lungs into Malcolm's, determined to keep him breathing until help arrives.

He's only a few breaths in when he hears the sound of voices outside of the room.

"Hey! Help!" Gil shouts and leans away to pound frantically on the door with the side of his fist, "Help!"

He only risks being away for a moment and then he's back leaning over Bright, forcing another breath into his lungs, pleased to see his chest is still rising with each of Gil's exhalations.

"Gil, man, is that you?" JT's voice floats through the door, the handle jiggling as he talks. His voice comes a little quieter, likely facing away from the door as he calls "Get me in this door."

Gil pulls back from Malcolm and sucks in a few deep breaths, feeling a little lightheaded himself, though he suddenly realizes that he's not feeling so hot anymore, doesn't feel any of the symptoms of the toxin. The antidote works. He just needs to find a way to keep Bright alive long enough to find him a dose. "You keep fighting, kid, do you hear me? Help is coming, just hold on a little longer."

"Are you okay, boss? Is Bright with you?" JT asks from the other side of the door. 

"We need an ambulance." It would be a shout if he wasn't so winded from breathing for them both. "Bright's been poisoned."

The commotion from outside suddenly becomes a whole lot louder, shouting and banging and a chorus of voices chiming in, jumping into action.

"I'll be honest," the voice from the speaker pipes in amidst the pandemonium, "my curiosity is piqued. None of our test subjects have reacted like your partner there."

Gil is too busy breathing for Malcolm to correct the man on job titles or to scream at him for killing Bright, so he ignores the voice and focuses on breathing, occasionally pausing to feel for a pulse — the flutter slowing and becoming dangerously faint with every minute that passes — until the voice casually offers what he's been praying for.

"I'd like to know if the antidote would even work on him at this point."

Gil's head shoots up, hope flooding through his system. "So give us the antidote."

There's a beat of silence before the voice cuts back in, "The executive office on the third floor. There's a wall safe behind the painting on the east wall. The code is 766537. The red syringe is the virus, the yellow is the antidote."

Gil nearly sobs with relief but leans in to blow another breath into Malcolm's lifeless body instead. Then he yells through the door to JT to tell him where to get the antidote.

It's only a matter of minutes before the door jerks open and Dani leads a team of two paramedics into the room. Her face falls as she sees Malcolm lying limp on the ground, entirely unresponsive and clearly not breathing on his own.

"Oh my god," she whispers, her hands moving to pull her hair back from her face and Gil immediately recognizes the fear that's radiating from her. He imagines his own terror is a mirror image of hers. It only takes half a second before she snaps into action, though, meeting Gil's eye to say, "JT is getting the antidote from the safe."

The paramedics, meanwhile, have dropped down next to Malcolm, pushing Gil gently aside. Before he can even tell them that Malcolm isn't breathing, they have an Ambu bag pressed over his nose and mouth, pumping air into his lungs far more efficiently than Gil ever could.

"He's been poisoned with an unknown substance," Gil hurries to explain to the man and woman who are quickly and thoroughly examining Malcolm while he lies there, completely unresponsive. "He stopped breathing a few minutes ago and seems to have a high fever. An antidote is on the way."

Gil is still kneeling on the ground, just off to the side, and he's not sure he has the strength to get up just yet. He may have received a dosage of the antidote long before he got to the point Malcolm is at now but he's definitely not feeling one hundred percent.

"Sir, are you alright?" the female paramedic asks, glancing up from where she's inserting an IV into Malcolm's arm.

"I'm fine," Gil says, brushing off the concern and wondering how bad he must look for her to ask.

"You sure about that?" Dani asks as she crouches down next to Gil, placing a hand on his shoulder before pulling it back with a scrunched up nose. 

He's soaked with sweat.

"Yeah," Gil replies absently, his attention focussed entirely on Malcolm, only drawn away as JT barrels into the room with a small case, handing it immediately to Gil.

Gil opens it with trembling hands, unsurprised to find two syringes, one with a red strip around the plunger, one yellow. He pulls the yellow one out and hands the case back to JT, who handles it like it might just explode as he closes it back up.

"He needs to be injected in the thigh," Gil says, holding the syringe out to the paramedics, who stare at him like he's lost his mind. He understands their hesitancy to inject an unknown substance into their patient, but Malcolm doesn't have time for their reluctance. "I've already been injected with the antidote, it works."

Dani and JT's concerned cries of, "What?!" go entirely unremarked as Gil pulls the cap off and lunges forward to jab the needle into Malcolm's thigh when the paramedics make no move to do it themselves.

Almost all movement ceases as they wait to see what happens, the rhythmic pump of the Ambu bag the only sound in the room as they wait.

And wait.

The paramedics eventually jump back into their ministrations, getting Malcolm moved onto the stretcher and hooked up to various medical equipment. 

"Hmm, that's a shame, really."

Gil wants to find the owner of that goddamn voice and rip their throat out. Dani and JT both pull their guns and spin to the side of the room, aiming towards the source of the unexpected statement but quickly discovering the speaker on the shelf.

"I was sort of hoping it would work, honestly," the voice continues, but Gil has turned his attention back to Malcolm. He barely even hears the farewell, "It was a useful trial, though. Thank you, Detective."

"What the hell?" JT mutters as he picks up the speaker and looks around the room, immediately clocking the security camera in the corner. "That fucker was watching?" 

Gil ignores the rage that's rolling off of JT as he struggles to his feet, muscles feeling loose and rubbery and not quite up to supporting his weight as he moves to the side of the stretcher.

"Come on, kid," Gil whispers, picking up Malcolm's hand. He'd swear his skin feels cooler to the touch than it did only moments ago and feels the small seed of hope begin to bloom in his chest. "Don't you pick a time like this to start sleeping."

"Sir, we need to move," one of the paramedics says and Gil nods absently in response but can't seem to bring himself to let go of Malcolm's hand. "Sir, you need to—"

Malcolm's heaving gasp feels like it sucks all the air out of the room. He throws himself upright on the stretcher, knocking the Ambu bag to the floor as he swallows desperate lungfuls of oxygen, startling everyone. 

"Bright!" Gil is still holding tight to Malcolm's hand, trying to catch his attention, trying to calm the panic that seems to be jolting through the kid's veins. 

It takes a moment to calm him down, to convince him to lie back and let the paramedics continue to treat him, but as soon as he does, the paramedics strap him to the stretcher and wheel him from the room.

Gil doesn't release Malcolm's hand for a second of the journey to the ambulance.

The medics strap an oxygen mask over Malcolm's face as soon as they reach the ambulance, clean air flowing freely into his battered lungs, and Gil is thrilled to note the change in his skin colour almost immediately, the blueish cast fading away as he begins to pink up.

"Gil," Malcolm rasps, bringing a hand up to the mask and tugging it down to his chin to be heard more clearly. The kid looks exhausted, like he barely has the strength to hold onto the mask let alone push out the words that fall from his lips. "The range on that speaker can't be far. If he's not in this building, then he must be in the one next door. We need—"

Gil reaches forward and wraps his hand over Malcolm's where it's gripping the plastic, guiding it back over his nose and mouth.

"We need to get you to the hospital," Gil states firmly, holding the mask securely in place until Malcolm's hand drops to the bed beside him. "Leave the mask on, kid. Let the paramedics do their job."

Malcolm nods but fights against the flutter of his eyelids as the exhaustion tries to pull him to sleep. His voice is painfully small and muffled by the thick plastic as he asks, "Are you okay, Gil?"

He'd be better if the kid stopped throwing himself into near-fatal situations, but that's a battle for another day, and one he secretly fears he has no hope of winning.

"I'm fine, Bright," he sighs, and drops his hand to take hold of Malcolm's, a reassuring squeeze letting him know that everything is going to be alright. They're going to need to have a conversation about that uppercut, and he can see that Malcolm is bracing himself for it, but for now, Gil is just happy to watch the steady rise and fall of his chest as the ambulance doors close behind them and the rig pulls away from the crime scene. 

JT, Dani, and the swarming force of NYPD and FBI agents that are screeching to a halt in front of the building can take care of their suspects.

Right now, Gil has more important things to focus on.


End file.
